


From the Darkness... a Spark

by Highkingeliot



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Gen, Self Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 12:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15218882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highkingeliot/pseuds/Highkingeliot
Summary: Eliot reaches an all time low, life before Brakebills. Symbolically one chapter ends and another begins when he finds his way to the school.For Welters week 7, The Black Out





	From the Darkness... a Spark

No, it wasn’t like the Tom Petty song. Closest it got was my mother was good looking and she wasn’t ever around. She was there physically but mentally she’d been checked out for years. 

It was a small town where all you could see for miles, were the never ending fields of whatever crop was in season. Then there was the occasional dot that was a house usually had some kind of repair happening. 

Winter was coming so it left little to chance. There was hard work from sun up to sun down and sometimes a little past. We had to get the crops done before the first cold snap. There wasn’t another option. 

When your farm was done you helped your neighbor, when theirs was done you helped the stranger down the road; that’s just how it worked. 

You were a man, you didn’t cry, you never showed pain. You hurt, took aspirin, went to bed so you could do it all again the next day. 

Snowfall, you think there’s reprieve? No. There’s planning for next season, fixing up the house, chopping firewood and fixing the farm equipment. 

Let’s focus for a moment on the small shimmer of hope. 

There was a corner of the barn no one really went to. The small room in the back. It wasn’t big enough for much. Usually used for storage of the old oil cans and gas cans for the tractors. It was a perfect escape. 

The fumes were mild enough to give you that slight high but low enough it wouldn’t kill unless you stayed all day. 

The school was a good escape. A good while to study and dress how you wanted. Nice shirts and clean pants were required. A small taste of freedom in the midst of required texts of Shakespeare and Dickens. 

‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ to some was just another play, to others an outlet and a good title for the note to be written. 

That room, the high, and too long there... my midsummer night’s dream, though more aptly timed as the harsh winter sting. The plan was made. 

It was a late night, and no one suspected anything. The plan was set in motion by an excuse to work alone. One he would be proud of. His smug look as he lit his cigarette and sat back in his chair smiling like a fool. While she gracefully picked up the dishes and washed them in the sink. 

She was something before him. How she ever fell in love with him was beyond understanding. She used to be pretty, she used to dance, perhaps that’s where these notions come from that one of us could be more than just a dirt covered corn farmer. 

The list was done. Animals fed, crops done, house in working order. It was set. A slow dark saunter to the barn, back behind the tractor, a note nailed to the door. Closed in darkness with only the fumes to take in. Not even the moonlight crept through. 

Dark. Endless dark and a voice declaring the final thoughts. Eyes closed. Memory fading. 

Outside the first snow of winter had just begun to fall. Poetic really. 

Surrounded by white. Was this heaven? Beeping, banter and hurried voices. 

“Will he be ok?”

Why do you ask now? It’s too late.

Shaking and confused, still slightly high, we learn the attempt failed. 

Damn. Try again tonight. 

The damned voices won’t stop. They say diagnosis of depression, no shit. 

He paced outside and smoked. You could see the smoke rings and the red dot pace outside the window. She sat in the corner of the room, she pulled a flask from her purse. The wise woman to keep sane. 

She looked distant but in the right direction. Seeing eye to eye but not making contact. She was gone like others wished they could be. The drink didn’t do it for some, smoking only took a bit of the edge off. 

Required reading from a younger age started playing. “The Chatwins knew there was more to life than the mansion they resided in and they were right. Just through the clock and over the small stream they came to their new world. Fillory. Unlike anything they’d seen before...” 

The words kept playing like some kind of memory triggered cassette. Eyes closed. Once again dark. 

Time passed. Back to the farm. Back to the hell that started it all. The days went like before. Work at sunrise to sunset, dinner then bed. 

One thing they missed. The dark night, back to the barn. To the small room, conveniently the note still nailed to the door. 

The smell still rose from the cans, oil and aged gasoline. Perfect. Deep breaths, slow, deep. Eyes closed. 

Dark. 

“We found him on the marble in the foyer.” 

This was new. 

“Thank you, I shall attend to him.” 

The only sound was the small clacking of footsteps as the others left. 

Set up against a wall, coughing is an odd first impression. 

This wasn’t the barn. 

The man looming over, pulled a card from his pocket. 

“Eliot Waugh.” He stated so matter of fact.

“Yeah?”

“This is Brakebills, we can help you. You’re not crazy, you’re a magician. I’m Dean Henry Fogg, you may address me as Dean.”


End file.
